by Luc Reid
“Julie, I’m in love with you.”
Julie stiffened, crossing her arms over her chest. “You came out here to tell me that?”
“I know it’s sudden, but with the meteor --”
“You think that gives you the right to come over here and claim me?”
“Hey, I’m not claiming anything--”
“I know you like me. I knew you liked me the first time you tutored me, when you couldn’t take your eyes off my chest. You’re not exactly subtle. Not even for a guy.”
“I didn’t--” he said, but the rest of the sentence, if he told it truthfully, would have to be … think you saw me doing that.
“Why don’t you go be with your family or something?” she said. “God, I can’t believe you.”
“Julie, I’m not kidding. I love you. I never felt this way about anyone before!”
“Shut up! Just shut up! I want to go watch Jimmy Stewart. I hate it that I have to live at the end of everything!”
She slammed the door in his face. Mark took a step back, feeling sick. What was wrong with him? Why did he think declaring his love to Julie Munoz would make anything better? His only consolation, he thought as he slunk back to his car, was that he wouldn’t have to face her on Tuesday for tutoring.
That night, the killer comet came within a few thousand miles of Earth. Contrary to every prediction, it shot by into the night, leaving humanity demoralized, dumbfounded, and faced with another glorious day.
The End
I don’t want to put the world away, but you’ve already started. You pour the oceans back in their bucket and snap the lid closed, and by the time I stop sulking and come over to help, you have already taken apart the Himalayas.
None of the tiny people are shrieking or running or shouting doomful messages on the world, because now that we’re done playing, all the little people are still. I brush them into their box in an unruly pile, not bothering to line them up.
I admit it: eventually we grow too old to play with the world--but I wish we could keep playing with it the way we used to, you lining your armies up in the north and me in the south, you making miracles and me moving learned men to spread ideas across the surface like peanut butter, like fire spreading over grass. I remember when you destroyed all my dinosaurs and I wouldn’t talk to you for weeks, and when I tried to melt the world but you got me to stop because of the polar bears. I remember how you used to look at me, the way your face crinkled by your eyes, your hoarse laughter … anyway, I remember.
You remember too: I know you do. Somewhere in your heart you still wish we could play. Somewhere in your heart you forgive me. Or anyway, you should.
When the world is broken down and tucked away, you drift away from me across the scuffed linoleum, your skin pale, your eyes tired, and as you slip out through the open door, you turn and say the last words you’ll ever say to me.
“Turn out the sun, OK?” you say. Then you’re gone.
In the Elevator with Albert Einstein
I shouldn’t have been up on that roof in the first place, but I kept thinking I could save a lot of money if I fixed it myself. Then I tripped over my own hammer.
The roof tumbled by in a blur as I tried like hell to separate my up from my down. My cheek scraped against the eaves, I went into freefall, and …crack: skull meets driveway. My eight-year-old, Jenna, was playing in the front yard and saw the whole thing. She was probably traumatized for life. Jesus.
And then I was in an elevator with some guy. A familiar-looking guy. “Are you … Albert Einstein?” I said.
“No, no,” he said. There was a silence while he studied the elevator buttons, dozens of them, in an intricate layout. “I used to be,” he said conversationally, “but you see, I died. Where does this elevator go?”
“I don’t know. Up?”
“Up,” he said, springing up and down on the floor a little. “It seems possible. Are you dead?”
“I think so,” I said. I thought of that last, flickering moment of seeing bits of bloody brain splattered across my driveway. “I hope so.”
The elevator pinged, and Einstein’s attention leapt to the door. It opened on a … I wasn’t sure. There were tables, with people sitting at them and talking animatedly … cups of coffee … something that might have been macaroons …
“It’s a café,” said Einstein. “Very encouraging: I’ll get off here. And you?”
I didn’t know. Einstein stepped out, waving for me to follow.
It was much larger than it had looked. There were no walls, just wooden floors stretching into the distance, and far off, a night sky blazing with stars. From many tables away an old woman was running toward me, an old woman who looked like Jenna, and it seemed to me that everyone might arrive at the café at about the same time.
Before she reached me, there was a collective “Aaah!” and everyone looked up. I looked for Einstein, but he had moved away. Jenna took my hand just as the stars began to fall, streaking through the sky with all the inappropriate iridescence of gasoline in a mud puddle.
“You really freaked me out that day you died,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Then we watched the sky fall for a while.
If you enjoyed these stories, you may be interested in Bam! 172 Hellaciously Quick Stories, in which I offer 155 more of them.
You're also invited to visit my site, where you'll find information about writing, the psychology of habits, my books, and more, at www.lucreid.com.
